


A Betting Man

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Awkward Flirting, CIA, Case Fic, Casinos, Central Intelligence Agency, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Croupier, Gambling, Inaccuracies, Kissing, M/M, Secret Identity, Sexual References, Shooting Guns, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1218880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a croupier. Derek is a CIA agent. This is what happens when their lives intersect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Betting Man

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for considerable CIA _and_ casino inaccuracies.
> 
> I had initially posted this as a part of [Altered](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1133703/), but after tweaking a few things, I decided to post it as an independent story.

* * *

 

Stiles's job is awesome. Yeah, he earns more in tips than he does in paychecks, but so what? It's a decent living, and it lets Stiles save up for a car while still occasionally splurging on Batman memorabilia. The shifts suit Stiles's nocturnal habits, too, and he can spend all day sleeping.

No, Stiles isn't a vampire waiter. He's a croupier at a high-end casino. Sometimes, he finds it hard to believe he's in a line of work where looking good is paramount, but even though he lazes around in ratty T-shirts and old, worn boxers at home, he _does_ clean up nicely and looks all shiny and sharp when he's on the clock. His shirt is a crisp white beneath his silky, form-fitting waistcoat, and his dove-gray pleated trousers cling flatteringly to his ass. He has tiny golden cufflinks that gleam when they catch the light, and black lace-up shoes that are polished mirror-bright. And yet his most important fashion accessory remains his smile, which has to be just the right combination of genuine and professional, just the right mix of slightly rakish and slightly sweet.

Stiles's fingers are quick and nimble as he deals cards or rakes in chips, so fast as to seem almost magical, and more than a few patrons have been known to hit on him after drinking a little too much and thinking a little too deeply about what those clever hands could _do_ for them.

Stiles always uses his cool, composed demeanor to gently reject them, because he isn't a newbie anymore, isn't a greenhorn that blushes when a society madam old enough to be his grandmother puts a too-familiar hand on his knee, or when a middle-aged married creep forgets he's here with his wife and slides not-so-subtle fingertips up Stiles's thigh. Yes, that stuff _has_ happened to Stiles, and continues to happen to him. He's just gotten more seasoned at coping with it.

Everything changes one evening, though, when a man more beautiful than any human being has a right to be appears at Stiles's table, and meets Stiles's eyes, and smiles.

And it's -

Stiles loses count of the chips he's dealing, and has to go back and start again. It's humiliating because Stiles is sure the man has seen him fumble, and now Stiles _is_ blushing like he hasn't blushed in ages, but it isn't his fault. The guy is absolutely gorgeous, from his broad shoulders in a flawlessly-tailored suit to his starkly handsome features, from his strangely uncanny eyes to his stubble that would make a normal person look like a hobo but on _this_ dude just makes him look like he stepped out of an Armani catalog.

Stiles catches the man's name ("Hale, Derek Hale") during introductions at the table, which is populated by the wealthiest people in town, including a milky-eyed old shark that is rumored to be some sort of mafia boss or international weapons dealer. Somehow, Stiles winds up manning the table for Mr. Hale and Mr. Shark not only that first night, but every night that follows for an entire fortnight.

And each time, Stiles gets closer to popping a boner while dealing fucking _cards_.

This is getting ridiculous. Derek Hale is totally out of Stiles's league, even if he keeps smiling at Stiles in that infuriatingly attractive way, like he wants Stiles to like him, like he wants Stiles to notice.

Who _wouldn't_ notice? Derek could blindfold him and Stiles would still be able to sense that smile, simply by virtue of its sheer warmth and megawatt power.

Great, now he's thinking about Derek blindfolding him. There goes his productivity for the night.

It's only at the beginning of the third week of the most sexually frustrating time of Stiles's life that Stiles discovers why Derek's been showing up so often, and even then, only at Stiles's table.

Crazy as it sounds, it's because Derek is an undercover CIA agent. Not only that, but he's an undercover CIA agent who calls in a team of crack commandoes to fight Mr. Shark-who-really-is-an-arch-villain and all of Mr. Shark-who-really-is-an-arch-villain's minions, of which there appear to be many, scattered all over the casino but gathered more strategically around Mr. Shark.

And Stiles's workplace turns into a madhouse. Just like that. The casino he'd regarded as safe and ordinary suddenly explodes into a cacophony of gunfire and screaming. There's smoke everywhere and men in military uniforms flooding in from where the _toilets_ are, what the hell?

It's like something out of a damn Tom Clancy novel, or a movie starring Harrison Ford. See, at that point, Stiles hasn't _yet_ learned Derek's identity; all Stiles sees is Derek slamming Mr. Shark's head onto the table with one hand and cuffing his wrists with the other, Derek's biceps bulging in the sleeves of his suit. (It's a sign of how far gone Stiles is, that he's still checking Derek out at a time like this.) And Derek's shouting at Stiles: "Get down!" Which leads to Stiles doing just that, his heart in his throat and his pulse pounding in his ears. His brain is efficiently putting clues together and making educated guesses - Derek is obviously some sort of law enforcement, possibly on a federal level, because of the cooperation of the military - but Stiles's body doesn't know that, _can't_ know that, and jumps every time a shot is fired. Shark's goons have whipped out pistols they shouldn't even have been able to carry into the casino (did they bribe the guards, or what?) and are grabbing random folks at adjacent tables. It nearly segues into a vicious hostage situation, but the commandoes, together with Derek's frankly scary kung-fu moves, save the day. And at the end of it Stiles is left huddled with a whole bunch of other guests under his very own gaming table, waiting to come out when the coast is clear.

Stiles's usually-presentable shirt is damp with fear-sweat. He's shaky and horrified, because loaded guns have been going off all around him for what must've been minutes but feels like _hours_. He keeps flashing back to the instant Derek had changed from a particularly ripped poker player that Stiles just happened to have a crush on into the long arm of the law, and how Derek had instinctively edged between Stiles and Mr. Shark's nearest thug, like he'd rather get shot instead of Stiles.

Like he'd needed to - needed to _protect_ Stiles.

But hey, it was just Derek's duty, wasn't it? He'd have done the same for anyone.

And that duty's been discharged. People are crawling out of their hiding places and standing up, adjusting their suits and dresses like they didn't all narrowly escape getting killed, and while there's some sniffling from the delicate types, the majority of the civilians are in too much shock to even be properly traumatized.

 _Stiles_ has no trouble being traumatized.

Stiles is fucking _talented_ at being traumatized.

So he stays where he is, concentrating on not hyperventilating, and it's only when a familiar hand (with a strong, manly, dark-haired wrist in a glittering Rolex watch) appears from above the table that Stiles takes it and steps out. Right into Derek's embrace, because Derek wraps him in it and draws him close and murmurs assurances like "it'll be okay" and "it's over" and "wish you hadn't had to go through this" and "sorry, I couldn't tell you I was in the CIA".

Stiles eventually extricates himself, because a) Derek might notice Stiles is getting an erection, b) Derek doesn't mean anything personal by it, since there are other commandoes giving similar comfort to those who're distraught, and c) it's pathetic to cling to Derek like some swooning medieval milkmaid.

Which of course means that, just _like_ a swooning medieval milkmaid, Stiles blurts out: "Were you legit hitting on me, then? Or was that part of your cover?"

Derek's face does this bizarre thing, this cascading of emotions that leaves Derek wearing a curiously blank expression. "I was hoping to recruit you."

Stiles blinks at him. "Huh?"

When Derek replies, his voice is gruff and clipped, nothing like the refined silkiness of before. "Your hand-eye coordination is excellent, your recall is flawless and likely eidetic, and the speed and accuracy of your dealing could translate very well into speed and accuracy in, say, loading guns and shooting targets."

Stiles just stares.

Derek stares back, looking increasingly uncomfortable, but with that same weirdly stoic blankness.

And Stiles realizes that maybe the CIA fucks agents up or maybe Derek came pre-fucked up, because Derek's more comfortable expressing feelings - and _affection_ \- undercover than he is in the real world, where he hides those emotions within himself like a painfully shy oyster hiding its pearl.

It's -

It's kinda cute, actually, maybe even _hella_ cute, and Stiles feels a grin tug at the corner of his mouth as the last of his fear melts away.

Because this guy? Is better than the super-suave Mr. Hale who never got a line wrong and could probably eye-fuck anyone into bed at a moment's notice.

 _This_ guy is badass at work but timid at heart, and there's something charming about that contradiction, something innocent that would make Stiles accept the I-just-want-you-to-join-the-CIA line if it weren't for the fact that Derek's genuinely into him. Stiles is _not_ imagining that. Not after years of patrons being into Stiles and Stiles knowing what that feels like.

"Yeah, right, like you wanna recruit me," Stiles laughs, pretending to a confidence he doesn't have. "If 'recruit' means 'ask me out on a romantic dinner and screw me senseless.'"

Derek clenches his jaw and glares.

Stiles reaches for that manly wrist again and scrawls his phone number on the inside of it, with the fancy pen every croupier has to have tucked into his or her waistcoat.

"There," Stiles says, "now you can call me when you wanna, heh, _recruit_ me."

And then, Stiles goes home.

He doesn't expect Derek to call him, because Derek might be interestingly vulnerable but he's still outta Stiles's league.

And Stiles is right about Derek not calling him, because Derek doesn't call him.

Who _does_ call him is the CIA, contacting him for a traineeship program and claiming that he's been "cherry-picked" by "specialist staff". Stiles just boggles and splutters and all but drops the phone, because seriously? _Seriously?_

He'd thought Derek was kidding! Or, well, just trying to cover his (admittedly fine) ass by saying the only thing that sprang to his mind!

Stiles tries to say he's not made for the CIA, that he hasn't got the guts to, like, pull guns on criminals or have guns pulled on _him_ , but the lady on the phone (a very intimidating Ms. Victoria Argent) sort of steamrolls over whatever he says and tells Stiles how much more he'll earn with the CIA. Before Stiles knows it, he has an appointment at the CIA headquarters.

Time flies after that. There's an interview with vaguely terrifying people and another interview with _specifically_ terrifying people, followed by a dizzying round of physical and psychological and intellectual tests, followed by an acceptance letter that Stiles takes a photo of and emails to his (extremely confused but increasingly excited) dad, followed by firearms training and fitness training and everything short of taking a cursed ring to Mordor.

Stiles can't recall when he quit his night-job as a croupier; the months have been so full of exhausting activity that he barely makes it to his apartment before falling onto his sofa and passing out.

Finally, _finally_ , his training is over. He isn't surprised when he's inevitably assigned to Derek Hale's unit; as the agent who recommended him, Derek gets dibs. What puzzles Stiles is why everyone calls Derek's a "pack," like they're wolves, but surely they can't be wolves. They're too _nice_ to be wolves, especially Scott, whose earnest eyes and uneven jawline endear him to Stiles immediately, and Isaac, who's basically this giant plushie (giant because he's tall), and Allison, who's just plain sweet and welcoming, nothing frightening about her at all.

But the first time they're out on the field together, Scott transforms into this athletic killer that vaults over rooftops, Isaac handles knives like they're natural extensions of his hands, and Allison slots an arrow into a crossbow (who has crossbows, these days?) and doesn't pause before shooting a child smuggler in the chest.

Not to mention Derek, who bares his teeth like some sort of beast and takes out no less than five different baddies with what looks like nothing but his bare fists and one mean kick.

Okay, so maybe they _are_ a rabid pack of wolves, holy shit.

But Stiles is member of that pack, somehow, is becoming a member of it, picking up skills that let him load and reload guns as swiftly as he'd once dealt cards. The "slightly rakish" smile he'd developed for overly familiar customers comes in handy when he's distracting security personnel by flirting with them, and his photographic memory certainly is useful in remembering reams and reams of data from systems he doesn't even have to try that hard to hack.

Derek was right, the CIA _is_ the place for Stiles.

And while Derek stubbornly refuses to take any credit for where Stiles is now, Stiles is determined to thank him, so he does, pressing Derek against Derek's own office door, locking it before cupping Derek's face in his palm.

Derek goes still, all over, like _Stiles_ is dangerous, like Stiles is the one that could fuck Derek up, not the other way around.

And when Stiles kisses Derek, it's with a softness he hadn't expected of himself, because he's wanted Derek for so long that the hunger's become a part of him. But the kiss is grows slicker and hotter when Derek doesn't push him away, when Derek lets Stiles reach for that perfect goddamn suit and slip it off those perfect goddamn shoulders, and when Stiles pauses to gasp: "Knew you fancied me," Derek just hauls him back for another kiss and growls "shut up" against Stiles's lips.

Turns out, sleeping with the boss isn't that difficult, after all.

 

* * *

**fin.**  

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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